


que venga lo nuevo

by fadagaski



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Gen, New Year's Eve, Nile Freeman Needs a Hug, Nile Freeman-centric, Traditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:42:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28476345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadagaski/pseuds/fadagaski
Summary: New Year's Eve 2019, Nile is moping in a house in Sweden with Joe and Nicky, who decide to introduce her to a couple of Spanish New Year traditions.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 56





	que venga lo nuevo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shei/gifts).



> Title is Spanish for "in with the new" (so I'm told).

The TV presenter babbles on and on and on, and Nile wishes she understood Swedish but she’s still working on her Russian and - by virtue of constant exposure - Italian, but it’s not all that dissimilar to New Year’s Eve shows back home: flashbacks and throwbacks and summations. 2019 has been a decent year for the people of Sweden. 

For her first winter holiday since her death, Nile thinks it could have been a lot worse. She’s made snowmen and hot chocolate in about equal measure, and had more snow stuffed down the back of her shirt (courtesy of Andy) than her brother ever managed. She’s discovered the absolute pleasure of steaming in a sauna, and also the absolute mortification of being naked with her new immortal family. She even got to see the Gävle Goat, which was definitely an unexpected highlight. 

Then through Christmas itself, there were so many different traditions she was goaded into trying, so many foods and dances and _jokes_ \- Lord help her, Joe tells the absolute worst dad-jokes she has ever heard - that she didn’t really have time to feel melancholy. Besides, it wasn’t her first Christmas overseas. It was easy to pretend that she was on a finite deployment with a fixed end date. 

Now, slouched almost horizontal in her chair with her feet still flat on the floor, Nile sips her mulled wine and broods at the TV. 

“How much longer, Nile?” Nicky calls from the kitchen. He and Joe have been puttering around in there for most of the evening, bringing out drinks and snacks and generally being busy. 

Andy left at sundown - 3PM, what a weird country - and hasn’t been back since. 

“Nile?” Joe prompts. 

“Like, five minutes,” Nile says. 

“Good. We’re nearly done. Do you need more wine?” 

Nile peers into her glass. “Nah.” 

On the TV, the host is talking to some guests. Nile would hazard it’s about the black empty sky behind over the golden lights of the city, soon to be filled with explosive colour. 

She used to love watching the fireworks with her dad. But that was a long time ago, and she can’t quite remember the warm clutch of his hand around hers. 

“Okay, here we go,” Joe says. “C’mon, sit up. Just because we can heal doesn’t mean your spine likes you for that position.” He plops down on her left. 

“Imagine if you stopped healing right now,” Nicky adds, sitting on her right. “Your first trip would be to a chiropractor.” 

Slug-like, Nile walks her shoulder blades back until she has shuffled upright. Her spine makes some very interesting noises as it realigns, and pride forces her to keep the pain from her face, though judging by Joe’s grin, they aren’t fooled. 

“Here.” He thrusts a bowl at her quick enough that she clutches it to her one-handed on instinct, slopping mulled wine over the knuckles of her other hand. 

She peers inside - and double takes. “What?” Eyebrows raised, she squints at Joe, then Nicky, both of whom have a similar bowl, each filled with fat green grapes. “Okay, why the hell do we all have a bowl of grapes each?” 

“It’s tradition,” Nicky says, staring avidly at the TV. 

“And when in Rome …” Joe adds. 

Nile scoffs. “Do grapes even _grow_ in Sweden?” 

“It’s _Spanish_ tradition.” Plucking a grape out of his bowl, Nicky points at the TV, where the countdown has just begun - ten, nine, eight. “Eat one for every chime of the bell.” 

Seven, six, five. 

“Why?” 

Four, three. 

Joe sits forward in his chair, grape poised next to his mouth. “It’s tradition!” 

Two. 

Shrugging, Nile grabs a grape. 

One. 

**Tolón.**

Nile pops the grape in her mouth and has barely split the skin between her teeth when - 

**Tolón.**

“Quick, Nile!” Joe shouts, laughing and muffled through a mouthful of mashed grape. 

**Tolón.**

Beside her, Nicky is ploughing through his grapes with laser focus more suited to a sniping perch. Joe has grape juice dripping in his beard. Nile stuffs more in her mouth, counting on childhood games of Chubby Bunnies to see her through to victory. 

**Tolón.**

Joe tries to grab a grape out of her bowl and Nile has to slap him back, curling the bowl into the curve of her belly. 

**Tolón.**

“Nile, keep going!” Nicky cheers her on. His cheeks are bulging like a hamster, jaw working furiously, Adam’s apple bobbing with every swallow. 

**Tolón.**

A spirited grape leaps out of her fingers and into the blankets covering the couch. “Shit!” 

**Tolón.**

She scrambles for the grape and stuffs it and a second in her mouth. 

**Tolón.**

Joe starts laughing, then coughing as an errant bit of grape goes down the wrong hole. 

**Tolón.**

“Joe, you okay?” Nile gets out around her mouthful. Joe waves his hand, heaving a massive cough, bowl wobbling dangerously on his lap. 

**Tolón.**

Nicky taps her knee. “He’ll live. Keep going!” 

**Tolón.**

And Joe, ever dramatic, launches himself backwards, arms flailing like he’s in his death throes, foot conveniently kicking Nicky’s, which sends Nicky’s bowl and the last remaining grape flying. 

**Tolón.**

Nile can barely breathe she’s laughing so hard, hand over her mouth to keep the masticated grapes inside where they belong. She’s at risk of choking to death with the final one but it goes down her gullet through sheer force of will. 

On screen, fireworks waltz across the sky, whizzing bangs of sparkling colour, and in the streets people cheer and dance despite the freezing cold. The chatty host lets the camera do the work of filming joy and hope in the streets of Stockholm. 

Nicky flops back on the sofa and flicks his recovered grape at Joe who, still wheezing, catches it and pops it in his grin. Then he tugs at Nile’s arm until she collapses against the backrest too, and the three of them huff and pant and grin, their lips shiny with grape juice. 

“What the hell kind of tradition is that?” Nile asks. “I’ve never heard of it before.” Not, she reflects, that it’s hard to find a New Year’s tradition of which she’s ignorant. There must be thousands, not even counting ones that have dropped out of all living memory. 

Well, almost all. 

“Ah,” Nicky says, scratching his sideburn with something like guilt on his face. 

“It’s new,” Joe says. 

Nile narrows her eyes at him. “How new?” 

“Well.” Joe sits up like he does when he’s about to impart some juicy bit of gossip about Nile’s favourite sculptors. “ _Technically_ it began in the 1880s. That's pretty new - by Andy's standards at least.” 

“But we only found out about it -” Nicky frowns. “When would it have been, Joe? 1998?” 

Joe nods. He smiles at Nile. “And now it’s new for you. Who knows what tradition will start next year? Or in ten? And you might not hear about it until a century later.” 

To even think about that kind of chronology blows Nile’s mind. She chugs the last of her mulled wine, sour against the sweetness of the grapes, and has to spit out a star of anise. 

Nicky pats her shoulder. “My favourite Spanish tradition is the red clothing.” 

Nile hesitates to even ask. “Oh?” 

“Yup!” Joe leaps to his feet, tucks his thumbs into his waistband and pulls them down. Nile gets a flash of red boxers before she manages to slap a hand over her eyes. 

“Goddamnit, I don’t need to see that!” she bellows, but it’s no use: Joe and Nicky are howling with laughter. 

Nile throws Joe’s abandoned grapes at both of them as she stalks off to the kitchen, grinning to herself, for more mulled wine.


End file.
